I just finished stripping the bed, which necessitated moving the lazy lump of a cat off My Beloved's side. She bounced around the bed for a while as I maneuvered around her until she finally jumped down and made her way over to the sunny windowsill.
And there she sat, in a patch of sunlight, peeking through the sheers at me while I finished with the sheets. She looked so cute sitting there watching me that I had to go over and talk to her.
Yes, I talk to my cat. I figure I don't have anything to worry about until she starts answering back. In English. Until that point I think it's safe to say that my sanity is in tact. More or less.
Anyway, I bent down in front of her thinly veiled face and talked to her. Eventually I put my finger on the sheers to try and touch her nose, but all I felt was curtain. I wanted to pick her up and hug her, but the curtain separated us and all I could do was talk to her instead.
And then I thought of Thomas.
I've heard many theories about what it's like to exist in the afterlife, but the one that has always felt most comforting to me is the one that suggests that our loved ones are with us, just behind a "curtain" so we can't see or touch them. They're always there, but in a place just beyond our reach.
I stood back from the window and watched Lucy's eyes follow me. She could still see me and hear me and watch me, but I couldn't touch her. I couldn't be with her in the way I've grown accustomed to after 9 years of cohabitation.
I stared at her as she stared at me. Then it dawned on me that this is exactly what I believe it's like for Thomas and I. He's here, it's just that he's sitting behind a curtain that I can't throw open.
It's funny to have this little epiphany so long after Thomas' death. I always believed he was watching over me, but for some reason it feels like today he needed to remind me - and to show me, in a way he knew I'd understand, how very thin the curtain that separates us really is.
Thank you Peanut